


The boys on 9th street

by multifandomgeek



Series: 1950s [3]
Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe, An AU of an AU, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, but it;s cute and with a happy ending, you don't have to know the other one though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multifandomgeek/pseuds/multifandomgeek
Summary: José is an elevator operator on the building Brock's just started working at.--1950s AU, boy's style.
Relationships: Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo
Series: 1950s [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1578991
Comments: 27
Kudos: 39





	The boys on 9th street

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Poppedthep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Poppedthep/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Pop! I tried my best to make this as good as the original, and I hope you like it even if I didn't quite succeed haha! You're an amazing person, kinder than one can possibly imagine anybody to be, and I'm really happy that I got to know you this year.

José wasn’t supposed to be chatty. Friendly was part of the job, but friendly wasn’t chatty. Saying good morning and answering if somebody talked to him was all he was supposed to do, he had been reprimanded more than once for striking a conversation while on the job, and he hadn’t been operating elevators on the building for even a month yet. There was a serious risk of being fired if he didn’t control his stupid mouth.

Besides, the more he talked, the more people _noticed_ , and the harder it was to hide. And that was really, really dangerous.

But come on, this guy was so nervous, José couldn’t help but want to cheer him up. And there wasn’t anybody in the elevator with them. “You’re new, right?” asked José before he even finished half-convincing himself that it would be okay to talk.

“Oh, hm-” the guy stuttered. He’d been staring blankly at the door and tapping the tip of his foot rhythmically, probably unconsciously. “Yeah. It’s my first day.” He finished with an embarrassed smile.

Oh, he was cute. Damn. “You’re gonna be fine, everybody on the 7th floor is real nice,” said José. He was not giving the stranger a once-over, absolutely not. “The assholes are all on the 4th. You know, the lawyers?” Oh, why in heaven’s name did he say that? What if this guy was friends with some of them?

But the guy laughed, and José smiled back. He was really handsome, blond hair combed back and tailored jacket fitting nicely around his broad shoulders. José turned back to the elevator’s buttons to avoid putting himself in a risky situation.

“Thanks,” said the guy softly. “I’m Brock Hayhoe.”

“Have a nice day, Mr. Hayhoe,” said José politely as the doors opened, expecting the stranger to leave, maybe mumble something in response, definitely not stop on the doorway to look back at José.

“What’s your name?” he asked, and José was so stupid to feel special by such a simple question.

“José Cancel,” he said robotically, more than a little lost in those gray eyes.

“You have a nice day too, Mr. Cancel.”

\--

Real men were not supposed to be talkative. They complained about their wives with close friends, discussed work-related subjects with coworkers, maybe talked about sports, but definitely did not make small talk with strangers out of nowhere, did not walk the lobby of their office buildings thinking about subjects to spring onto nice operators, and most definitely did not feel their hearts fluttering if said operator smiled because of something they said.

Brock, as it were, was not a prime example of a real man. He never had been, and was always reminded of this fact constantly, was always trying to make up for it, to walk stiffer, to talk deeper, to keep his hands to himself.

 _One of these days I’ll tie your hands down, see if you learn some manners then_ , his father had said to him in a particular afternoon when 8 years-old Brock was very excited about having found a frog in the backyard, so much so that he forgot about not gesticulating. Nowadays, he was better at keeping it down, but every now and then he would forget. It was fine while people were only making fun when he slipped here and there. The trouble would de if they started talking in whispers about him behind his back.

“Good morning, Mr. Cancel,” said Brock entering the elevator, softer than he should. José always brought it out of him.

“Good morning, Mr. Hayhoe,” responded José.

Two other men got in the elevator with Brock, so he didn’t say anything else. What a bummer; he had been thinking about this ridiculous joke since breakfast, and was wondering if it would make José hold back his laughter, or look at him with pursed lips like he was stupid, or, best of all, let out one of his rare, unrestrained guffaws that could be heard by every soul standing near the elevator shaft in the entire building. Brock was rooting for the last, though the quality of the joke did not really warrant it.

One of the men got out on the 2nd floor ( _really, chap, use the stairs!_ ), and the other on the 4th. José barely waited for the doors to close before he talked.

“I can already tell I’ll not find that joke funny, mister.” He was still looking forward, shaking his head, but Brock could tell he was smiling already.

Brock giggled ( _Giggled!_ ). “How are you so certain, Mr. Cancel?” _Men don’t giggle_ , said a voice in the back of his head that was thoroughly ignored as José looked at him with those bright brown eyes.

“‘Cause it’s you telling it.” There was quite a bit of sass in there, and Brock knew José didn’t talk like that to just anyone, he just knew. He felt butterflies in his stomach at the thought.

The elevator dinged and both men hurried to recompose themselves, wipe the smile off their faces and promptly pretend they weren’t staring at each other just now.

“I guess you’ll have to wait to find out,” murmured Brock before saying in a normal voice: “Have a nice day, Mr. Cancel.”

“You too, Mr. Hayhoe,” José responded just as Brock was stepping out of the elevator.

\--

It took Brock three months to find the place. Admittedly, he wasn’t very good at looking, but that wasn’t important anymore; he found it. From outside, it seemed like a really old bar, almost falling to pieces, but nothing extraordinary about it. That was understandable, it couldn’t really be a place attractive to any passerby looking for somewhere to buy a drink.

Brock pushed the door and walked inside swiftly. He might have been a little paranoid, even, but one could never be too careful. He was met with a rough-looking guy behind a counter, in a passageway that led to a corridor to the side and, as far as Brock could hear, the main area of the bar.

“Who are you?” the guy asked, suggesting he was supposed to know.

“I’m- I’m new,” said Brock, nervous and starting to doubt if he was in the right place even though he expected something like this to happen. The place where he used to go back at his old town had a similar approach.

The guy squinted at him and Brock stepped forward, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny. “How did you end up here?” he asked, suspicious.

“I’ve been looking,” said Brock. “Trying to, uh, follow certain people and listen to certain signs. Nobody actually told me anything.”

The guy pondered for a second, and Brock resisted the urge to fuss with his tie, but he still couldn’t look the man in the eye.

“Alright. Go in. No kissing, no touching, no dancing,” the guy listed, settling back on his stool. “No cross-dressing,” he pointed firmly. Brock only nodded his agreement. Why did he even feel like reinforcing that? Jeez.

It turned out that, despite the hard welcome, the bar was nice and pleasant. It could be any other regular bar if you weren’t the observant type. People were talking and drinking while a jukebox played in the corner. It was quite the novelty, and Brock found himself disappointed that dancing was not allowed. He ordered himself a drink and sat at a table in the corner of the saloon, watching the crowd before he decided to interact with anyone or even go check out what was available in the jukebox (he hoped for Marilyn Monroe).

He wasn’t there to make friends necessarily, at least not today. He wanted to see if he felt safe, if this was really his kind of place, if he could be himself there without the risk of getting punched. In other words, he wanted to get his bearings first before he tried anything outlandish like flirting.

Other people were not that careful. Now, Brock was aware he was handsome, but usually that came with small nice gestures from eager-to-get-married women and not much else, not that he noticed at least. Except when he was in a place like this. In the 20 minutes he spent sipping his drink, two different men sat across from him trying to spike up a conversation. It made him feel very good about himself, his shyness and precautions melting away as he reconsidered his own rules. But before he could do anything about it, a group of people coming into the bar stole his attention.

Three men of color approaching the bar were exceptionally loud as they talked excitedly with the woman behind the counter. They were laughing and leaning on each other, very much breaking the “no touching” rule, even if there was nothing inherently sexual in what they were doing. Real men didn’t act like that, but it sure looked fun.

Brock frowned slightly, and he would have completely ignored the group in favor of the handsome blonde in front of him had he not recognized one of their laughters. He gasped, eyes searching along the bar. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he finally released it when he found him.

There, standing in between two guys was José, small, perfect and smiling.

\--

There was something wrong with Brock, José could tell. He had been quiet for about a week now, even forgot to say good morning one day. José didn’t say it for him. He should only respond, it was in his job description, so it wasn’t like he was sad and a little angry about being excluded from Brock’s life or anything. He was just doing his job, pressing buttons every day with no jokes to pretend to laugh at, no secret smiles exchanged in between floors, nobody to be chatty with.

José didn’t like his job much. It was fine, it paid regularly and he didn’t have to sell anything, but he might as well be invisible and buried underground for the whole day. He didn’t like being still for so long, or forced to be polite for so long. It was boring, and Brock was the only person there who he could think of as anything close to a friend, who brought a smile to his face and made his day a little better.

He missed him.

Today, Brock was late. It was unusual. There were some people who were always late, always panting to catch the elevator. There was this one guy who José was used to hold the doors for, predicting he would get there a second or two after he closed them otherwise. But not Brock, he was always on time.

Half an hour late, Brock stepped into the elevator without greeting José, who said nothing in response. He closed the doors, pressed the button to the 7th floor, and tried his best, without success, to remain looking forward.

“If you stop the elevator on purpose, will you get in trouble?” Brock asked as their eyes met, José having turned around almost immediately to look at him.

José pressed the button to stop the elevator. He didn’t actually know if people would be able to tell if he had done it on purpose or if it was a legit accident, but right now he couldn’t care less. He turned back to Brock expectantly, resisting the urge to get up and touch him.

“Spit it out, I can’t hold it all day,” said José. It would probably be fine for a little while, but Brock’s serious expression was making him nervous, even if it softened with a small smile after he spoke.

“I’m new in town,” began Brock. “So it took me some time to get my bearings, you know, find everything I need. I even got lost going to the market a few times.” José was confused as all hell, and it probably showed, if Brock’s anxious reaction was anything to go by. “But, um...never mind that,” Brock continued, laughing nervously. “In any case, it took me a while to find, uh, this… place, you see. I had been looking, but I only found it last week.”

José was still lost, even if Brock was looking at him meaningfully.

“It’s a, uh, special place, for leisure,” Brock continued, his gaze now locked with Jose’s. “A bar. On 9th street-”

Understanding dawned on José, who widened his eyes.

“-and I saw you there.”

“Nope, not me,” said José, quickly pressing the button to restart the elevator and locking his eyes on the damn thing. “You must be confusing me, sir.” He quickly identified that they were close to the 3rd floor, pressed that button and got out, running to the bathroom and locking himself inside.

He sat on a closed toilet, hyperventilating, scared shitless. He hoped Brock wasn’t following him, hoped he wouldn’t get other people to come at him later, hoped and hoped and hoped. Sure, he and Brock had been in friendly terms, and José was even entertaining a crush on the guy, but that was just fantasy.

Reality was knocking on José’s door now. Brock was probably planning on beating him right there in the elevator, who knew, maybe even make fun of his stupid googly eyes while he did so. How could he have been so careless?

\--

Brock had been late on purpose, wanting to be alone in the elevator with José, finally gathering up the courage to talk to him. What a disaster. What did he think would happen? That José would be happy? That they would kiss like in a romantic movie? That sort of thing didn’t happen for people like them.

The elevator didn’t move, and there was no excuse for Brock to stay inside it. He didn’t know how to operate the thing (that’s why they had operators after all), so he would have to climb the remaining floors to his office by stairs. Still, he didn’t budge, leaning on the metal wall, ironically trying to ground himself. What would happen now? Would José tell on him? Something like that was sure to get him fired and possibly make it impossible for him to get any other job in this town.

He would have to move. Again. Because of a boy. Again.

Brock squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them and cursing his own stupid heart for believing in stupid ideas. When he opened them again, José was right in front of him, looking up to meet his eyes, his ridiculous uniform looking cute in a way only he could pull off.

“If you saw me, you were there too,” said José. “Why?”

“You only now realized that?” chuckled Brock, his heart pounding in his chest.

“I panicked, Mary!” José stage-whispered, getting the elevator doors closed once again and making it go up just to stop it again in between floors. “You don’t spring that on a guy out of the blue.”

“Sorry,” murmured Brock, smiling, hope cursing through his veins like a drug.

José took off his hat, placing it on his stool carefully before turning back to Brock. They were close, the inside of the elevator allowing only so much distance between the people inside plus the operator stool. Brock’s breath hitched in his throat, his heart beating even harder.

“Why you cornering me like that?” asked José quietly, getting impossibly closer and trying to maintain his usual demeanor even with fear so clear in his eyes.

“Why do you think?” retorted Brock, already a little hunched down, eyes locked on José’s plump and tantalizing lips.

Real men don’t get that close to each other. Real men don’t let their eyes flutter closed from the smell of another man, from his breath on their cheek. But then again, who wants to be a real man when you can feel like this just from a kiss?


End file.
